


No Light, No Light (in your bright blue eyes)

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, M/M, Oneshot, Pining, Songfic, Unresolved Tension, mutual unrequited love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-14
Updated: 2014-06-14
Packaged: 2018-02-04 16:49:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1786234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Songfic to Florence and the Machine's "No Light, No Light"</p>
<p>Relates to both Sherlock's and John's feelings for each other and highlights select moments of hurt and inner turmoil starting from right before the fall all the way to HLV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Light, No Light (in your bright blue eyes)

**Author's Note:**

> This is just something my angsty mind created in a moment of utter melancholy when this song repeatedly made me think of all the pain and heartbreak our boys have had to endure.
> 
> For those of you who don't know it and are curious, you can listen to the song here: http://vimeo.com/33107605
> 
> Lyrics belong to Florence and the Machine  
> Characters belong to BBC

_No Light, No Light_ by Florence and the Machine

_You are the hole in my head_

_You are the space in my bed_

_You are the silence in between_

_What I thought and what I said_

 

Sherlock clutched his head in desperation, pulling at his hair, willing the pain to sharpen his thoughts. Everything had been so easy - so drab and insignificant and lifeless, yes, but EASY, above all. He had always remained detached for a reason, aware that alone was what protected him. But now, now he wasn't alone anymore, was he? John Watson had had the audacity to simply walk into his life, ease into it so unassumingly and then make himself indispensable before Sherlock had even fully realized it. For all the good changes John had brought with him, he had also weakened the detective in a way the mad genius would have previously deemed impossible.

John had entered Sherlock's impenetrable fortress of a mind palace - heavens only knew how - and now there he was, occupying this space in Sherlock's head that caused him to reconsider, to reevaluate, to succeed and, more often than not, to fail. The detective's thinking wasn't as clear as it once had been, his mental capabilities were tainted be the utter distraction provided by one short, kind faced doctor with deep blue eyes.

He was consumed with sheer frustration about his situation, about his vulnerability in the face of Moriarty and the criminal mastermind's obvious knowledge of John as his sole pressure point. Now it wasn't just for his own life that he had to fear anymore, and no matter how aggravating it was, he knew he'd die trying to protect his one and only friend.

Flopping back onto his bed, still unable to wrap his head around Moriarty's 'final problem', yet so desperately wanting to plan ahead for all eventualities, the unbidden thought of whether John really only ever was his FRIEND emerged.  
Generally, he succeeded well enough at keeping such notions at bay, but now - with emotional turmoil extinguishing almost all rationality whilst finding himself staring at the empty space next to him - Sherlock couldn't help but admit that more than once had he yearned for the physical proximity of the other man. He hadn't allowed himself concrete fantasies - of waking up cradled in John's arms, of kissing him, endlessly, in the dark, of touching and being touched in return - but he couldn't deny that the vision of John had always been right there: on the pillow, next to his.

 

_You are the night time fear_

_You are the morning when it's clear_

_When it's over you're the start_

_You're my head, you're my heart_   
  


  
John woke up with a sudden start, covered in sweat, his heart pumping fast while his mind was still flashing images of what his subconscious had just provided him with. He sat up in bed and tried to catch his breath as he reached for the bedside table to take a sip of water. He hadn't had a nightmare like that since - well, he supposed since shortly after he had moved in with Sherlock, really. It had never even occurred to him, but something about living in 221B, sharing close quarters with the world's only consulting detective and his dear friend seemed to have calmed his traumatized psyche enough to not plague him with nocturnal terrors of the war any longer. It was reassuring, really, and just another item to add to the long list of things he was grateful to Sherlock for.

Sherlock. The man who had reintroduced him to a life of thrill, adrenaline, and sheer danger.  A life that he had missed so immensely after the war without being able to phrase the notion to anyone - a life that Sherlock had instantly realized was essential to his happiness and wellbeing. All the chases through dark alleys, the close up confrontations with weaponry of all sorts, the scheming and planning and deducing, the fear for one's life and the victory of living to see another day, another criminal caught, another victim done justice - that's what constituted his life now, and he wouldn't trade it for anything else in the world. This life. His life with Sherlock.

Sometimes, when he let his thoughts enter that bleak void, that sentimental and obscenely dark place he didn't like revisiting often, he acknowledged that Sherlock was likely the only reason he was still alive. If the crazy madman hadn't come into his life right when he did, if he hadn't pulled him out of the misery he had found himself in after returning to London, hadn't given him a purpose - he knew that sooner or later he would have felt pathetic enough to close his lips around the barrel of his own gun. Sherlock had given him a whole fresh start just when he'd felt so close to the end, and for that he would forever be thankful.  
  
Snuggling back into his blanket after having successfully evicted all memories of the nightmare, John wondered whether it was this sheer gratefulness that had him feeling so extraordinarily attached to the detective, or whether there was a whole different sort of attraction altogether. He was well aware that he loved Sherlock - in a strictly platonic way - but in moments like these, when he was summing up all the evidence yet still incapable of looking at it objectively, he had a hard time convincing his mind that Sherlock hadn't already invaded his heart to an entirely different extent.

The last conscious thought he recalled before drifting back to sleep was wondering why exactly the nightmares had returned that night - after such a long time and without any obvious triggers. Little did he know that it was only the first in a row of many sleepless, terror infused nights to come, foreshadowing the darkest period of his life yet.

 

_No light, no light in your bright blue eyes_

_I never knew daylight could be so violent_

_A revelation in the light of day_

_You can't choose what stays and what fades away_

  
  
"No no no no no no!!! This can't be real! NO, Sherlock!" John didn't know if he was actually shouting the words or whether they were only consuming his mind, but it hardly mattered. Almost as if on autopilot he fought his way through the gathering of bystanders and nurses, his sole focus on the body splayed on the ground. Sherlock's body.  
As he crouched down next to the tall man, he still couldn't comprehend what had transpired. Surely this couldn't REALLY be Sherlock, right here in front of him, could it? And even if, certainly his posture and lack of any movement or reaction didn't indicate that he was... And undoubtedly there'd be some harmless explanation for the pool of blood that surrounded the detective's mop of curly dark hair, right?

But John knew. Before he even checked for Sherlock's vitals, he knew. He had bloody seen him jump, after all, had seen his lithe body tumble from the rooftop of St. Bart's, right into thin air with no other destination than the concrete ground he was now draped on almost poetically.

He knew, and yet his mind refused to believe the obvious. This was Sherlock, in the end, there just HAD to be another explanation!

He reached for Sherlock's wrist, staring into those wide open eyes that were just as lifeless as the absence of his pulse. Sherlock had the bluest eyes he'd ever seen - they were like the ocean after a storm, speckled with green and gold and rimmed by a circle of perfect navy. Sometimes they could be dark and gloomy, other times fiery and fierce. But right now, right now they were bright, icy blue - just like they had been that first time he'd stared at John in that intensely scrutinizing and mesmerizing way. Bright blue, but without any light or fire left in them, reflecting the pale London sky while no longer baring any trace of the incredible man behind them, of his life that was ended much too soon.

John knew he would forever be haunted by those eyes, their beauty, their sorrow and, most of all, the revelation - the accusation - imminent in them: "You loved me", they seemed to say, to SCREAM, "You loved me and you never told me. You never showed me, never even admitted it, and now it's too late. Too late, John."

The realization washed over him so suddenly, without warning, and momentarily he was consumed by the sheer fear that not only had he lost Sherlock, but that now the memory of him would also forevermore be tainted by unadulterated regret. As he broke down on the sidewalk, forcefully pulled away from the body, he was overcome with more pain than he had ever thought imaginable.

 

_And I'd do anything to make you stay_

_No light, no light_

_No light_

_Tell me what you want me to say_

 

Standing in the graveyard, staring at the stone that held the name of the best and wisest man he'd ever known in big bold letters, John wondered if the pain was ever going to ease.  
Burying Sherlock Holmes had been so final, so irreversible and unambiguous - and yet he felt as if there was still a part missing, as if their journey wasn't quite over yet, despite all the evidence suggesting otherwise. He knew it was merely wishful thinking, though: that he'd never get his final goodbye, never get his chance now to tell Sherlock how he really felt. It wasn't fair, this was never how it was supposed to go. Sherlock had saved him, time and time again, and now there was absolutely nothing he could do in return. As helpless desperation welled up inside of him, John knew he'd do absolutely anything to bring Sherlock back, to make him stay. Even if it meant giving his own life in exchange. And hell, if he couldn't bring him back, maybe he'd just go through with what he had considered doing once before, and join his friend in death. The idea seemed strangely comforting...

_"You can't die, John, don't be daft. You need to live to defend my name, my reputation. THAT's your purpose now."_

John was in no way surprised to hear the deep baritone in his mind - he'd had imaginary conversations with Sherlock before, had long come to terms with the man's permanent presence in his brain. Why should things have to change now simply because his human vessel was no longer intact? And as usual, Sherlock - even his imaginary self - was right. John's mission now was to convince the world that the detective hadn't been a fake,  that he'd been a hero, in fact.

_"Don't be silly, John. Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't have been one of them."_

But John was determined to fight for Sherlock's name regardless. Would it change anything? No. Would it bring Sherlock back? No. Would it help give him closure? No. But at least it would give him a reason not to kill himself.

"Now just...please... I've never been good with this sort of stuff so...just please, tell me what you want me to say!", John pleaded with his eyes as he stared at the gravestone, readying himself for the final speech he knew he owed his friend.

 

_Through the crowd, I was crying out_

_And in your place there were a thousand other faces_

_I was disappearing in plain sight_

_Heaven help me, I need to make it right_

 

The art of disguise was knowing how to hide in plain sight. The truth of this statement had never been more apparent to Sherlock than now, being forced to leave his old life behind and go into hiding. He was fairly certain that he'd convinced everyone sufficiently of his death, but still he needed to be overly cautious. One wrong step, one miscalculation and Moriarty's men would instantly have him killed - and John, too. Particularly the latter was a risk he desperately wanted to avoid, and yet he just couldn't seem to bring himself to leave London immediately. It was far too easy to hide in the crowd, after all, to become a secret observer for just a little bit longer before taking off to take out The Network in decidedly less appealing parts of this world.

He had long given up on trying to kid himself that John was NOT the sole reason for his staying behind, was NOT the single focus of all his observations. Remaining at a sensible distance, he followed John around inconspicuously in the weeks after his suicide. He followed him to the graveyard, listening to the doctor's speech from his hiding place in the shadows, unable to stop the tears and clutching feverishly at the tree in front of him in order to fight his urge to simply walk over and embrace the mourner tightly. It hurt, to see the other man in such pain, and he vowed to himself that he'd do absolutely anything to fix things, to make it all worth it. For John.

He was there when John went to the pub with Lestrade a few nights later in a pathetic attempt to drown his sorrows in alcohol. Although Sherlock didn't condone said approach, there was hardly anything he could do to stop John - and besides, who was he to talk? He, with his drug habit and addictive behavior was hardly a role model for acceptable coping mechanisms. The least he could do, however, was to watch out for John, to protect him - an endeavor certainly necessary after the doctor had had more than enough and started a pointless fight with a homeless man on the way home, clearly abusing the poor sod as a stand-in for Sherlock and all the anger he had harbored against him for leaving. He punched the man, assaulted him verbally and then quickly turned around, ashamed of his actions and ready to stumble home. He neither noticed the man pulling out a switchblade, ready to launch an attack on John from behind, nor the tall coat-clad person slipping from the shadows to restrain the attacker until John was a safe distance away.

Sherlock could tell that John wasn't in a good place, that he was desolate and broken - and that it was all his fault. His friend's misery hurt him more than he could have ever imagined, and as he focused on that face he'd grown so used to one last time through the crowd at Trafalgar square before making his way to board the plane that would bring him to Eastern Europe, he felt the strong urge to call out John's name, tell him that it'd be okay, promise him that he would make everything right again. After he closed his eyes for a second to get a grip on his potential foolishness, John's face had disappeared, but Sherlock knew for a fact that he wouldn't rest until he could look into those kind eyes again.

 

_You want a revelation,_

_You wanna get it right_

_But it's a conversation,_

_I just can't have tonight_

_You want a revelation_

_Some kind of resolution_

_You want a revelation_

  
  
The bloody bastard! Did he really think he could just waltz back into John's life like that, a cheery "Guess who's alive?" coupled with a flamboyant gesture, a boyish grin and a drawn on moustache? Had he honestly expected John to jump up with glee, hug him and tell him it's all fine and forgiven? That it didn't matter that he'd wasted two goddamn years of his life mourning the man, grieving, waking up with regret and self-loathing each morning - still, to this very day?

Could Sherlock be really such a sociopath not to notice the audacity of his behavior? Or was he doing it on purpose? Had he missed humiliating John so much that he had deliberately chosen the venue (a restaurant much too chic for John's usual taste - and budget), the date (the day, of all days, when he was finally going to propose to Mary? When he was finally willing to move on with his life?) and the approach (a bloody comedic act, complete with fake accent and getup as if this was something hilarious!) just to that extent? Well, if so, he had been utterly successful. John had made an arse out himself in front of everyone at the restaurant: the snooty waiters, the upper class guests and, most of all, his fiancée-to-be, who, out of anyone, least deserved to be exposed to such a scene.

John was furious, and his anger wasn't countered in the least by the joy he obviously DID feel, somewhere deep below, at seeing Sherlock again. God, one last miracle, wasn't that what he had asked for? Who would have ever thought he might actually get it! But the timing, Sherlock, the timing! Aside from the completely aggravating fact that the detective had very clearly lied to him for the past two years, had purposely kept him in the dark when one word, just one single word would have sufficed to relieve him of his pain, the timing of his return couldn't possibly have been any worse.

There John was, finally healed enough to move on, to not cry his eyes out anymore every single night, to start a life with someone he cared for, someone who would finally give him the domestic bliss he had always desired - and then Sherlock reappeared, standing in front of him now in all of his maddening, gorgeous glory and with that intense look in his eyes that yielded both begging and confusion.  
Begging John to forgive him (how could he, when he didn't even understand what had occurred yet?), to embrace his return (he did, but how could he possibly show it through all that fury?), to revert to the good old John who would simply give him a look of amazement and mutter: "Brilliant! Tell, how'd you do it, Sherlock? You're fantastic!".

John knew that was what Sherlock desired, and he was well aware that a part of the detective was genuinely confused as to why things hadn't turned out just that way. Sherlock always wanted everything to be resolved quickly, to be dealt with efficiently and entirely - but he clearly couldn't comprehend that the average human didn't operate that way, couldn't just conveniently switch off their emotions and take the path of the least resistance.  
At least he stood reassured that apparently nothing much had changed in that regard, John thought to himself bitterly.

"I'm sorry Sherlock. I just can't do this tonight", he whispered so quietly that he was almost sure no one heard it before punching the taller man's face one last time.

 

_No light, no light in your bright blue eyes_

_I never knew daylight could be so violent_

_A revelation in the light of day,_

_You can't choose what stays and what fades away_

_And I'd do anything to make you stay_

_No light, no light_

_No light_

_Tell me what you want me to say_   


   
"So...this is serious, then?"

"Hmm?"

"You and Mary. Is it serious between you two?", Sherlock asked and tried his very best to hide the apprehension threatening to creep into his voice. He wasn't sure whether he really liked Mary, but for John's sake - and the sake of their already impaired friendship - he had promised himself to attempt to at least give her a chance.

"Yes. We're getting married." John stated with clear emphasis on the last word, and when his eyes met Sherlock's, they were devoid of any emotion, anything that could have possibly betrayed the sincerity of his words.

Although Sherlock had long been aware of the fact, hearing it confirmed by John himself delivered a more painful blow to his stomach than he had expected. For a moment, he almost choked on the lump that formed in his throat while trying to force back the tears that had started prickling dangerously behind his eyes. Here he was, having fought and stayed alive and finally returned for John (and only John), only to find the single most important person in his life about to share his with another. Of course he had always suspected that the doctor would want to settle down with a  nice wife and possibly children sooner or later, but he had always pushed the thought aside, unwilling to dwell on its implications for too long. He had, however, never considered that such dreaded event would occur so soon (soon? John himself probably thought it was late, given his age...), and definitely not so soon after Sherlock's rise from the dead. Certainly, they'd still be friends, maybe even colleagues at times - but even a sociopath like Sherlock could tell that marriage would change things, and that without their shared living arrangement, without their constant companionship, the special note to their relationship would fade away (was it even still there, after all he'd put them through?). He clenched his fists in despair, thinking that he hadn't come back for John only to lose him again almost instantly!

But, as it seemed, that was exactly what was about to happen. John's very eyes told him so, and Sherlock wondered whether they registered the pain on his face, in his features, as they stared at him so coldly, so calculatingly and determinedly and without mercy -  mercy Sherlock knew he didn't deserve, but that had always been given so freely by John regardless. Until now, that was.

The detective flinched as he realized just how dangerously close he was to caving, to dropping to his knees before John and begging him to stay with him, pleading for another chance at the life they used to have. He'd promise and do absolutely anything, anything at all - if only John told him what it would take.

"Alright, I'd better get going", John interrupted his thoughts awkwardly before swiftly stepping out the door, leaving Sherlock with his dignity intact (thankfully? regrettably?) but his heart shattered.

 

_Would you leave me,_

_If I told you what I've done?_

_And would you need me,_

_If I told you what I've become?_

_'Cause it's so easy,_

_To say it to a crowd_

_But it's so hard, my love,_

_To say it to you out loud_   
  


When John had asked him to be his best man, his first instinct had been to decline. He wasn't even supportive of this marriage - how could he be expected to play such a vital role in an event he didn't condone? Mainly, however, he was thrown because he hadn't expected to be John's best friend - how could he have, after everything he'd done, after all the pain and grief he'd caused the man? He was flattered, and, frankly, scared out of his mind. He had thrown himself full on into the wedding preparations just so he wouldn't have to think about the important and terrifying task ahead of him.

And yet, somehow, the dreaded day had managed to come up regardless and he had fared surprisingly well at suppressing his hurt, keeping his biting remarks and cynicism to a minimum, and making John's eyes light up so beautifully with his well prepared and entirely heartfelt speech.

There even had been an almost-murder he had prevented in the midst of it, and Sherlock's dancing lessons with John had paid off visibly as he gracefully lead his new wife around the dance floor to Sherlock's violin composition. All in all, the day had been as successful as he could have hoped for, considering the circumstances.

Minus that one, inconvenient revelation, that was. No, not the one about Mary's pregnancy - although, admittedly, that on had been just as unexpected and painful, but in the grand scheme of things it was really just the cherry on top.  
No, he was referring to how in the midst of his speech, while so eloquently and smoothly expressing his sentiment to an entire room full of people, he had - completely unexpectedly - deduced himself to be in love with John Watson.

It was a deduction that, as he knew now, had been waiting to be made for a long time, and yet the timing couldn't possibly have been any more unfortunate. At the beginning of the day, his heart had been broken because he thought he was losing his best and only friend, was losing a special companion and loyal partner. At the end of the day, he was reassured that all of Sherlock Holmes - man, soul and heart - were broken because he had just lost the only person he had ever truly loved.

He wondered if at any point, John had ever returned these unbidden feelings of his (probably not), and what he would do now if he were to tell him about his deduction. Because really, that's what he owed him, wasn't it? He HAD told him he loved him, during his speech, but while it had been so easy to phrase the words in the context of best man to groom, best friend to best friend, and in front of an entire wedding party, it now seemed paradoxically hard to imagine saying the same in private, for John's ears only, and with an entirely different (really though? different?) meaning.

Fear wasn't something Sherlock ever allowed into his life, but at the very thought of admitting his love to John, he felt nervous and afraid. What would his friend say when he told him what he'd done during his speech, what he'd concluded? How would he react upon being confronted with the fact that on top of insufferable flat mate (although not any more, was he?), lying bastard (John's words, after he had returned from the dead), and just altogether terrible friend, Sherlock had now also become the undeserving best man who was pathetically and selfishly in love with the groom?

Would John be appalled at his inappropriate sentiment? Would he maybe pity him, like the detective had spotted a  faint glimmer of in John's eyes after telling him his and Mary's baby would now take on Sherlock's spot in their odd triangle-relationship? Or, and this was probably the worst of all options, would he be angry with him for not realizing these feelings earlier, for robbing them of the chance to pursue this path while there was still time?

No matter how Sherlock twisted or turned it, rephrased and reconsidered it, the outcome always remained the same: there was nothing to be gained from a revelation like this - there'd never be a happy ending for him, not now, not ever, and John didn't deserve to have his own happy ending burdened with such despicable knowledge. And thus it was decided: at least for now, to ensure John's happiness and spare himself the pain and humiliation, he would keep his mouth shut, no matter how badly he wanted to share this biggest of all deductions (the only one that had ever really mattered) with the only man who had always appreciated them.

 

_No light, no light in your bright blue eyes_

_I never knew daylight could be so violent_

_A revelation in the light of day,_

_You can't choose what stays and what fades away_   


  
They stood on the terrace of Appledore and John felt more and more panic well up inside of him with every flick of Magnussen's despicable finger to his eye. He risked a glance at Sherlock, who just stood there, motionless, seemingly detached. It was a scary sight and unsettled John even further - wasn't Sherlock the mastermind, after all, the one who always had a plan, a solution? Now, however, he seemed lost and, not for the first time, John noticed the lifelessness of his eyes.

When had those amazing, radiant, piercingly blue eyes lost their light? Of course he'd seen them like this once before, when Sherlock had pretended to be dead, but this was different. Then, he had faked the death of his body - now, his body was well and alive, but it was his soul (his heart?) that seemed paralyzed. For the first time since the wedding, John really took the time to think about it:

Sherlock had been so wonderful in his duty as best man. He had been beyond helpful with the preparations, had been his most charming and friendly self the day of, and had blown John away with his incredibly kind and sweet speech. That day,  for the first time in a long time, John had honestly allowed himself to think that maybe - just maybe - everything would finally be alright again. That him and Sherlock could go back to the way they were, and that he could be married to this perfectly lovely woman at the same time. So where had Sherlock eliminated himself from the equation, and why?

In retrospect, John thought that it must have been when he deduced Mary's pregnancy. All of them had been shocked, naturally, but then the notion had quickly been replaced by glee and happiness - at least for him and Mary, he was sure (despite everything, he still didn't doubt her joy about the baby). Sherlock, on the other hand, while smiling kindly and muttering reassuring words, had looked at John just then with - well, he had thought it was a congratulatory expression then, but now he wasn't so certain anymore. Recalling the image of the detective's face, it seemed more as if he had been invaded by a profound sadness, combined with the awareness that this was how things needed to go, how they SHOULD be going. He had been happy, yes, happy for John - but at the same time a man destroyed, devastated, and ready to accept his fate. Decidedly it was then, that the light and life had drained from his eyes, and John wondered how he hadn't realized this until now.

John flinched as Magnussen stated precisely how and why he had Sherlock and him under his thumb - it was a painful, a bitter declaration, the implications of which he couldn't even begin to process in their entirety at that very moment. Finding Sherlock's eyes one more time, silently begging him to DO something, hating himself for being so helpless and codependent, he was struck by those steely blues again - and by what they revealed to them, so willingly now that he seemed to finally understand. Sherlock had vowed to do everything in his power to ensure his (and Mary's, and the baby's, but ultimately always HIS) happiness - and that's exactly what he was determined to do now, at any cost. Driven by the single most powerful motivator known to mankind: love.

John felt dizzy with the sheer weight of his discovery.

 

_And I'd do anything to make you stay_

_No light, no light_

_No light_

_Tell me what you want me to say_

 

Mary and him were sitting in a cab, on their way to the airport where they'd see Sherlock off into exile. They didn't talk, or touch, and John was utterly thankful for that. His mind was entirely focused on Sherlock, and how he was about to lose him - again.

He hadn't seen him in the weeks since the shooting at Appledore. He had been brought in for questioning numerous times, but it was always carefully avoided that he'd run into Sherlock. He assumed they'd been holding the detective custody somewhere, and could only hope that Mycroft had seen to favorable circumstances. By no means could he imagine his friend in prison - he wouldn't last a day. But the undeniable fact was that Sherlock had killed someone, fully conscious and with clear intention, and no matter how morally justified it might have been, murder remained murder. John guessed that really, undercover work while exiled wasn't the worst punishment, considering, but it still pained him that Sherlock had to face repercussions at all.

The worst thing about it was that he knew he'd done it for him, for Mary's safety and John's happiness. The knowledge was a hard burden to live with, and if there was anything he could have said or done to take some of the blame, to diminish the charges against Sherlock, he would have. But the detective had paid close attention to ensure that such an endeavor would be impossible for John, he had taken all the precautions necessary to ascertain that John could in no way be connected to his crime. It was infuriating, the bloody bastard's stubbornness!

And now here they were, getting to see him one last time, bidding him one last farewell (was it for good, this time?) and John didn't have a clue what he would possibly say to the man he had come to realize seemed to love him just as much as he had always loved him, too.

 

_You want a revelation,_

_You wanna get it right_

_But it's a conversation,_

_I just can't have tonight_

_You want a revelation_

_Some kind of resolution_

_You want a revelation_

_You want a revelation,_

_You wanna get it right_

_But it's a conversation,_

_I just can't have tonight_

_You want a revelation,_

_some kind of resolution_

_Tell me what you want me to say._   
  


_  
_They stared at each other, silently, and the situation was more than absurd. Should this underwhelming, clinical, forced moment really be what their great friendship accumulated in? How could a few words, some seconds of awkward eye contact, touches exchanged under the watchful eye of observant bystanders possibly be expected to sum up the years of wonderful friendship, meaningful conversations, stolen glances and lingering caresses?

Both men realized the pressure of their situation and were acutely aware of what it implied: if they wanted to make this count, the only way to have the significance of this moment do justice to what they shared was to finally reveal it all. If there was ever a moment for confessions, for apologies and for declarations of eternal love, this was certainly it. They knew it wouldn't resolve anything, that it was far too late for that, but in the very least they'd be able to mourn their loss together, if just for a moment, and then move on in the knowledge that what they had - and everything they could have had - was real.

It was strange, how very out in the open everything finally was as they stared deeply into each other's eyes - both pairs drained, lifeless, sad, appropriate for the occasion and likely never to be fully lit again - and suddenly, words seemed meaningless in the face of it all.

Sherlock, aware of the certainty that death was imminent for him abroad, while John was completely oblivious to the fact (or at least he hoped so), continued his struggle to find the right words for just a few phrases longer than his friend did, but then caught himself just before he was about to express what he suddenly realized didn't need to be spoken out loud anymore.

And then, genius that he was, Sherlock suddenly knew just what John would want him to say. If this should be the end of it all, right here, right now, there was only one thing that could pay proper tribute to their time together without utilizing empty platitudes and hushed words: John's laugh.

So he said it: "Sherlock is actually a girl's name", and with the most wonderful sound of them all, the light in both of their eyes ignited one last time.

 

**Author's Note:**

> So sorry to dump all this angst and heartbreak on you, I just had to get it out of my system! ;)
> 
> I would absolutely love some feedback, you guys are always so kind and I think I have developed a little bit of addictive behavior in regards to comments on AO3 haha.
> 
> Thanks for reading! <3


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